The Iron Man [Serial]

The Dhobitorium

The Dhobitorium was a loud, hot place to work, and the labor was tedious, but I found it helped to get into a rhythm. Tug the togs to the machine, clack at the laundrodeon's engine, load the hanger cartridge, pull the clean kapare from the rack, press, and package for the public.

Press was understatement. There was an art to a regulation press, to getting threads stiff in all the right places. Under the Pax Fashionista, simple wardrobe malfunction could cost a professional their job, or for one of the creative caste, a visit from the Gendarmerie. Having a good dobby was preferable to doing your own ironing; it gave you a fallguy.

I was a fair dobby. For one of the lowest of the manual caste, a Code-compliant press was a survival skill.

The signal board flashed, indicating a client. It was near closing time, which meant a rush of overnight orders for those who couldn't afford more than one regulation ensemble. The tog-cogs working for the Creatrix had some mix & match allowance, but military and professionals had nil.

I put the press into standby, then peeled my work smock and gloves down my arms. I smoothed my simple kurta beneath my hands, as I moved to the front of the shop. Laborers, curiously, had the most allowance for variation within the Code, so long as we looked competent and serviceable, and did not appear in uniform of other castes.

"Please excuse the wait...Sir." There was a dandy in my dhobitorium.

"Salaam," he said, lifting a gloved hand to tip his a charcoal-gray bowler.

"Salaam. How may I help you?"

The swell leaned forward against the counter, clutching a tweed garment in one hand, as his dark eyes moved up and down my body. He grinned widely, white teeth against golden-brown skin. "I hear you're the best Londoni iron man there is."

"Sir?" I prompted, more accustomed to scrutiny, or the polite indifference some afforded the manual caste. I wasn't handsome or well dressed. My hair was lank, and my skin red and blotchy from the steam. At least that hid embarrassment.

"You give such a good press, you have General Perwani as a customer."

"That's privileged."

"But true," he said firmly, "now lock the door." The dandy lifted a familiar type of sword-cane. "I'm afraid I must insist."

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